


Past and Present Tense

by ballpoint



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:19:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harrison meets up with Clare, after she calls him to give him forged papers for Maya Pope's getaway plan. Harrison realises that Clare and himself can't recapture the past, but they can seize the moment right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past and Present Tense

**Author's Note:**

> This story is for spectacles in script over in tumblr fandom. We saw Clare Tucker in S03x09, and immediately, we were struck by Harrison and Clare's sexual chemistry. After a weekend of filthy innuendos (and one week to get some perspective and see how it would work with a story) this happened. These events will be jossed by canon soon enough, so enjoy the speculative fiction while we can.

”Keep your phone on, H. I’ll be in touch in a few hours.” 

With a sly nod, and a wry curve of lip, Clare turned on her heel and strode out, with that slinky glide Harrison remembered so well. Head high, hair swept back from _that_ face, its textured, inky mass contained in that bun at the nape of her neck. Her nail thin heels tapped out an exit to the hallway, her fingers - index and middle- pressed the button waiting on the elevator to ascend to her floor. He heard when she left, the scrape of the lift’s grilled gates to its car opening. Her stepping into the car, the grills closing after her, off to do her deed for Olivia. 

A few hours. As if he’d ever be ready. As if he ever been ready when it came to Clare. 

“Who is she?” Abby’s voice cut through his woolgathering. Her voice sharp with offense or curiosity. At times, with Abby, one didn’t know which was which. 

“She’s someone who’s helping us help Liv,” Harrison absently slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, still looking at the spot where Clare stood. 

“Oh, a good Samaritan, _nice_.” Harrison didn’t have to look in Abby’s direction to know that her arms were folded under her breasts, her foot tapping a morse code of impatience against the floor. 

“Yeah, she’s -nice,” with a final look at the space Clare briefly stood, he tore his gaze away and forced himself to look at Abby. Abby, still clad in her slate coloured overcoat, and her oversized work bag, its strap slung over her her shoulder, reminding him that they only stopped by to have a meeting with someone who wasn’t supposed to be Claire. “We still have items to cross off our lists before she gets in touch. So-”

“We’re not going to talk about her, aren't we?” Abby’s mouth thinned into a strict, unwelcoming line. Abby knew the answer, because before David, before Olivia charged him with _that_ assignment, they’d been close once, probably moving towards something more. Abby knew enough about his moods to know the retort; but it would have been impolite not to answer her, and their friendship hadn’t yet regained the comfort to be at ease with a sudden rudeness. 

“No,” Harrison affirmed, as he walked with Abby towards the door. “We aren’t.”

***

True to her word, she got in touch, via text.

An innocuous message, telling him the time and place for their meet. Not in keeping with the business that they dabbled in, he turned up at the bar. Somewhere in Dupont Circle, North of K Street. A bar so tony, Harrison half expected them to ask for his passport and credit report before serving him a drink with a small side salad. The barmaid had enough of the snoot for it, even her flirtation was restrained. A small smile, and one blink of lashes before she showed him to his seat. 

Harrison slid into the booth, an intimate space with quilted leather against his shoulders and back, the table covered with a cloth that glowed in the dim. Harrison had always prided himself on never looking back, never been bogged down by the monster of if, or self flagellation over the choices made. 

Nope, his face and gaze were ever fixed forward and upward. His slickness and smarts moving him from selling used cars to white collar dealings, because that’s where the money was. 

He never looked back, didn’t care to. 

Clare Tucker. 

Even their first meeting had been electric, him still raw, nerves exposed before they were smoothed and buffed by polish and exposure and Olivia. 

He’d had thrown his lot in with Adnan Salif; got whisked from nights at the Ramada to boutique hotels like The Jefferson. Noted and absorbed the ways of The Salif at functions. With table settings so intricate you needed diagrams in the art of the seven course meals just to decide which fork to use. Harrison thought he’d caught up in the ways of the elite, that Salif’s grins in his direction were the ones to gauge his success on. He’d never believe that he’d been failing. 

Until one day, he got told that he had been. 

“You need a guide, someone to show you the ropes, buff you to a sheen,” Adnan said one day, when they were having a late lunch at the Mandarin Oriental. The table set for four, but only the two of them, their fare spread out on the table like a minimalist feast. All spots of colour in large plates, more an artist canvas for a photography assignment than actual portions of food. 

“I- what?” Harrison raised an eyebrow, his fork halfway to his mouth. Speared at the end of the fork’s tines was the flakiest pastry he’d ever tasted. A dish with the sharp, crumbly texture of feta cheese, with the smooth green flavour of spinach and dried tomato. The sun not too bright outside, beyond the glass windows, just enough to flood the room with light, to make the Sunday seem mellower than it was. Briefly, Harrison looked at his attire- Lacoste shirt, Ralph Lauren slacks, vans sneakers that showed that he wasn’t trying too hard to be stylish, but preppy enough to be unthreatening. 

“People won't trust you with money if you don't act like as if you're born into money. I’ve gotten you one,” Adnan continued, with a wave, his manner grand and imperious as a king in charge of his court. With his olive skin, widow’s peak , smartly trimmed facial hair and elegant features, he looked as if he could have easily been a king from one of those far Eastern kingdoms Harrison might have read about in _Forbes_ , but his accent was pure Eastern seaboard. “She should be here now,” Adnan tipped his wrist to peer at the dial of the watch face. Never mind that its face was as big a side plate, its markings such that you could see the time across the room, but Adnan gave an air of enjoying the luxury of such things. Harrison could only try and imitate. 

“Ah! Clare!” Adnan rose from his chair, his arms spread, his face wreathed in smiles. Harrison turned around, and rose from his chair, ready to wield the charm offensive. 

Only for his heart to slam against his chest, his jaw slack as his eyes fell on her for the first time. 

_Her._

For longer than Harrison would care to admit, in his thoughts he referred to Clare as _Her_ for a long time. In the same breath as one would think of a deity, in an uppercase letter for the pronoun, with the same reverence as mediation on her name. _Her_.

Her hair in a chunky halo around her face, swept back from her forehead with a brightly patterned scarf fastened with an oversized brooch (later, much later, in their relationship when she’d knotted it around his wrists, he learned the name of the maker - Hermes). Oversized bangle earrings swung from her lobes. She’d slipped into an oversized slinky jumper, and leather trousers that showed off well shaped legs, and the boots that he’d come to learn she liked so well. High on the calf, with a heel. One bracelet on her hand- whitegold with an oval sapphire in the middle, giving her outfit a stunning simplicity. Her skin a glorious, medium brown, with a muted glow and softness that beckoned a man to touch or taste. 

He couldn’t stop staring at her face, her features probably a bit too strong to be called pretty. Her eyes eyes almond shaped, a deep dark brown, her mouth a bit too wide, her chin strong. No, not pretty, _striking_ was more the word. The electricity that leapt between them stunned him, rooting him to the spot for a good few seconds. Her lips, lightly sheened with gloss opened slightly. It was madness, to take her hand when when she extended it to him, her fingers bare save the gloss of her nails. 

“Clare,” Harrison said, not caring if his voice sounded rough, as if he hadn’t had spoken English since the Clinton years. 

“Harrison Wright,” she said, her name in his mouth causing him to stand straighter, taller. “Adnan has told me so much about you.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, I don’t know you.” _Oops_. “But I. I- want to know you. I mean. I-” And Clare smiled at him then, going from striking to beautiful. She dazzled him, brighter than the sun outside, but no need for the sun shades that he’d left at home. 

“We’ll know each other soon enough, H,” she murmured, giving his fingers a surreptitious squeeze, as she slipped her hand from his, before drifting into Adnan’s arms, and kissing him continental style, a buss on each cheek. 

“Clare,” Adnan said, before holding her away from him arms length. “As winsome as ever. Who are you today? The lady who lunches?”

“I might be,” she answered, and Harrison, still standing, pulled out a chair for her, and helped her into it. The pantomime nothing but a ruse to get near to her, near enough to smell her perfume, something spicy and dark. “Thanks, H.” Clare raised her gaze to his, and their eyes held only for two heartbeats, before she turned her head to Adnan, breaking one spell, leaving others intact.

***

“On time, as always.” Clare said in lieu of greeting as she slid into the booth across from him, her voice yanking him from the grip of memory.

“I have your-”

“No,” Clare interrupted, only to smile at the waitstaff as their meals were set down before them. Then, a votive candle lit between them, throwing their surroundings into a dreamy chiaroscuro. “We eat first, then business.”

 _That_ they’d both learned from Adnan Salif. The notion of hospitality, be it a simple fare as coffee and a doughnut in a car, to a five star restaurant in the finest hotels, never wavered. Always before business; over a meal, the strictest of truces, the closest thing to an amnesty in the world they shared once. Harrison knew better than to argue, sipped at his drink, and stared at Clare. Clare, being Clare, stared back. It never changed, the unabashed thrill he got just by looking at her. To others looking in, Clare seemed a study in poise. Her spine straight, head high, hair away from face, her fingers touching the high ball glass with nary a tremble. Her eyes on his, she brought the glass to her lips, and sipped. Her throat working with every swallow, and Harrison gulped his drink, his throat suddenly parched.

By tacit agreement they spoke about everything else save why they were here. 

“You haven’t broken your vow and travelled on the metro?” Clare’s laugh flew from her, and around him, making Harrison smile. 

“No, no . I’d rather stay in gridlock than go on the underground. Remember what you told me when you used to work for GS?”

“About if travelling by public transport didn’t make you want to be ambitious, there wasn’t no hope for you?”

“Yeah,” Harrison laughed. “I got some hope.”

The laughter faded, as they looked at each other, the candle light flickering over her features made him want to touch her, just to touch her. The meals on their plates only half done, but their time here ended. Clare, always Clare, made the first move. “Our time’s up. We should finish our business and go our separate ways.”

“We should,” Harrison agreed, and were they always going to be this _polite_ going forward? Clare, as usual was three steps ahead of him, as she got to her feet and walked out the door. Harrison only paused to throw enough cash on the table to cover the cost of their combined meals and a tip, as he hurried to Clare’s side, his fingers around her arm as they strolled out. 

No sooner did they hit the street, that he was crowding her off the street and in one of those nooks that set her features to shadow. The roar of the city's sounds; taxis, people laughing, horns blaring, immediately dimmed, as if someone closed a heavy glass door against the world. Unable to help himself, he touched her cheek. His fingers skimming from cheek to the column of her neck. The zing of his skin against hers _one touch_ was all it took to make him forgo his vows on never looking back at his past. Clare turned away from his touch. Harrison made his hand drop, unconsciously accepting Clare’s silent rebuke, and made to turn away, only for her voice to stop him in his tracks. 

“Not here.” 

“Where?” Harrison asked, his voice gruff with the _want_ of her. 

“I’ll text you,” she said. “Twenty minutes.”

The Mandarin Oriental, a place they knew from their shared history.

As usual of The Mandarin Oriental, the room was a study in understated luxe. Thick carpet underfoot, sorbet colours from wallpaper, to the bed in the middle of the room, to the lighting.

It was a surprise _not a surprise_ as they both meet in the middle of the room. Clare’s face telling the story they both knew. 

_This is a bad idea_ , the knowledge sure as her coat lapels between his fingers. He untied the sash, unbuttoned her coat, his eyes never leaving her face. 

_We have no time_. 

That didn’t stop Harrison from framing her face between his palms, and resting his forehead against hers. Before he angled his head and in a smooth move, he brushed his lips against hers. Clare, on a sigh, drifted her arms around his neck, on his shoulders. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth under his. 

_We can’t go back._

But they could, Harrison realised, as he licked into her mouth, tasting the perfume and burn of chillies on her lips and tongue. With efficient dispatch, they shucked their coats off, her fingers easily making light work of the Windsor knot in his tie. As well as it should, he thought distractedly, _since she taught me that knot_. His fingers in the springy, textured coils of her hair. She’d never straightened it- either chemical or thermal- not as long as he’d known her. Pins everywhere- Clare kept the pins in her hair for- other uses in addition to holding all that mass in that bun at the nape of her neck. He scraped his teeth from the spot at her jaw where her pulse beat furiously, to the clavicle. A sharp bite elicited a breathy moan, made her soft and heavy in his arms, and Harrison felt himself harden even more. 

“H,” Clare sighed, and Harrison swept her up, Disney princess style. Clare gave a delighted giggle, her earlier reserve tucked away, her face now showing delight. “Put me down,” she smiled, one of those sweet, soft, secret ones that she only gave when they were alone. Back when they were together. When they’d finally split, those smiles had kept him up and at a loss for weeks afterwards. 

“When I’m ready, I will,” Harrison absently licked at his lower lip. “And I’m not ready yet. I also think,” he allowed his eyes to drift along her body, her shirt dress unbuttoned to show the lace of a bra, her stockinged feet showing the dusky purple polish on her toes. “You have too much on.”

“What a coincidence,” Clare lowered her gaze, before raising her eyes to Harrison’s. The unabashed want and _scorch_ of her gaze heated his blood. He felt her hand, her fingers brushing from his shoulder to chest. “I was going to say the same thing.”

“Great minds.”

Clare laughed as she bounced on the bed, beckoning to Harrison to her with outstretched arms. As if he had been capable of doing anything else. He yanked her shirt dress down her body, his mouth and hands covering the nakedness that the dispatch of fabric left behind. Nothing but textures and scent, her arching into his hands when he laved at her nipple. Her hands tangled in the sleeves of her dress, helpless against his onslaught, her chest bared to him, her mouth slack with pleasure. 

“H,” Clare breathed as Harrison inched back to her face. His hands stroking her cheeks, her hair. Her mouth soft because of him, and he kissed her, sweet and deep. Nibbling on her lower lip first, because she’d laugh, her mouth curving under his. He’d suck on her tongue, before kissing her lips again. They used to spend nights just kissing, like this, each kiss a fulfillment in itself and that would be enough, at times. 

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed as they broke apart. If nothing else that transpired tonight, he’d tell her this. “You’ve always been beautiful.”

Somehow, she’d untangled her hands from her sleeves. If she’d heard the comment, she never said, just flicked open a button on his shirt. “C’mere,” Clare whispered softly, pushing herself onto her knees, before pressing her lips against his shoulder, causing Harrison to close his eyes against the shudders of pleasure that rolled through him. Harrison caught her hand in his, stilling her movement for a bit. With her other hand, Clare brushed her thumb against his chin, smiling at the wiry texture under her thumb, her lashes fluttering as he bit the pad of her thumb. “Let me taste you.”

“Later,” he said, wrapping his fingers around her wrist, and Clare nodded, as if they’d have the luxury of anything other than now. He broke away, shucked off his clothes before they came together. His skin sliding against hers, tasting the salt, feeling its softness, glorifying in the sheen of sweat by ambient lights from outside and the table lamp. Her thighs trembled as Harrison tore off her stockings with his teeth, his fingers skimming against the long, toned muscles of thigh and calf towards her toes. Taking his time, he traced kisses back to source, tarrying until Clare arched for him, moaned his name. By the time he was ready to complete their union, senses scattered and filled with nothing but her, Clare attacked, flipped him onto his back. Her eyes ablaze with lust and mischief, she straddled him, and rode them both home.

***

Harrison came to, first. His lips against Clare’s shoulder blade, her hair tickling his nose.

“Hmmm,” Clare lazily trailed her fingers from his chest to groin, making his flesh goosebump. “I could kill you right now.”

“You could,” Harrison said, the room cold enough for him to draw the covers over them both. At Clare’s contented sigh, he kissed her shoulder blade. Before he got comfortable, Clare pushed herself up, trying to corral the mass of hair, as she pushed it off her shoulder blades, back from her ears, before she stopped. Harrison knew she tended to do this in the shower, away from him, so he wasn’t surprised when she got up. Naked as a jay, and she walked into the ensuite shower, and shut the door.

 _How’s Adnan and what did he say?_ he wanted to ask, when she came out in a fluffy, white robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. Knowing that due to his choices, he’d lost the right to ask. 

“How are you?” he settled on asking. “Not the business, not him, not any of it,” he clarified. “Just _you_.”

Clare opened her mouth to speak, and for the first time since they saw each other at OPA, her composure faltered for just a second. A _flicker_ of time, before her features smoothed out again. She crouched on her haunches, picking up the bobby pins that they’d scattered. 

“You have no right to ask me that,” she said finally, as she straightened, wrapping her fingers around her pins. She unwrapped her towel from her hair, and draped it around her shoulders, the dark mass of hair weighing around her shoulders in tight, watch spring sized curls. With grace born from long habit, Clare twisted and smoothed her hair with both hands, and with a few positioning of pins, her hair now a bun at the nape of her neck. 

“No, not for anything else,” Harrison agreed. “Just you.”

“No,” Clare shook her head, as she looked at the view outside, her hands tucked in the robe. “Not that either.”

“Oh,” Harrison said, unsure of which direction to go. What they had had been complicated; a simultaneous equation of love for their work and whatever they had for each other. At times, it had been hard to tell the difference. He was now out of bed. “Give me a minute. I’ll need to shower and freshen up.”

“Of course.” Clare said, patting at her face with her towel. 

It took him literally a minute. Not wanting to be away from her, just because. By the time he came out, towel slung around his waist, Clare was already dressed, a sleek presence in her coat. Burberry trench, the dark mulberry colour from this season, he realised, admiring the style of it. In her hands, she had his shirt. Gingham checked, with stark white collar and cuffs. 

“Paul Smith.”

“Yeah,” Harrison half dragged, half hopped into his boxers and trousers at the same time. 

“You still wear the brand.”

“On your recommendation.” Harrison softened, as he crossed to her, as he took the shirt from her hands. “You said it suited me,” he exhaled loudly through his nose. “You were right.”

Dropping her gaze, Clare stepped away, towards her bag perched on the bed. “Here,” she said, holding an envelope towards him. “New passport, two credit cards in the client’s name, the works as promised.”

Back to business, then. Harrison nodded, and reached for his coat, with the pockets sewing into lining. He reached in, and took out a bulky envelope. “Money, as agreed.”

They closed the space between them, exchanged and inspected goods at the same time. Clare checked the stacks of one hundreds with bands, and Harrison peered at the passport and accompanying credit cards. The work was well done, just as good as the guy Huck used at a push. 

“Thank you,” Clare smiled politely, tucking the money into the lining of her coat. The soft smiles and sweet, biddable nature now submerged under cool, amused professionalism. She slung her the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and made ready to go. “See you around.”

“Clare,” and Harrison couldn’t help himself. He traced her chin and jaw with his knuckle. “I-”

Clare placed a palm against his cheek, the look of longing between them so intense, he was glad when she broke the stare first . “Bye, H.” she finally said. “Please close the door when you leave.”

With that, she left the room, the door a stern click behind her. Harrison stared at his jacket, the one with the tailored stripes of the Paul Smith lining, remembering her, remembering them. Looked at the unmade bed, and shook his head, willing himself not to look behind. Not to think of the snatch of time they'd spent in this room. Already a memory to close his heart against, before he lost it again. 

After a few minutes, Harrison shrugged on his jacket, and buttoned it. Slipped on his coat and quietly left the room. Didn't look back when he turned the lights out.


End file.
